Word experiment #4 Opulence (please place your writing in the comment zone)


Meridian Lines


I have been opening the meridian lines
Gathering knowledge 
Stretching the lines of communication like the marks on my hips



Gaining greater understanding,
of who the hell I may actually be



I am collecting all the pieces of myself
Bits from here and there
I am putting them back together again
with tiny much needed kisses 
and boxes of ribbon



I am sewing up the space
left in this empty cradle 
that has been cut deep in my womb



I am filling it up with the sweetness of spring
Gathering blossoming flowers
crocuses, camellias, plantain and honey



I’m eating only love from now on
Filing in the small cracks, of all my walls
Spackling them with golden light and tenderness



All the mouse holes are being covered up
They are being evacuated as I write this



I’m sealing up all the windows and the doors to keep the heat in



At night
I’m cutting all my cords,
unplugging all my lines
Until there is only me



Until I am full of warmth 
and this body is once again my home.

February 23, 2012 at 12:42 PM
 Delete

Comments

BT said…
Meridian Lines

I have been opening the meridian lines
Gathering knowledge
Stretching the lines of communication like the marks on my hips

Gaining greater understanding,
of who the hell I may actually be

I am collecting all the pieces of myself
Bits from here and there
I am putting them back together again
with tiny much needed kisses
and boxes of ribbon

I am sewing up the space
left in this empty cradle
that has been cut deep in my womb

I am filling it up with the sweetness of spring
Gathering blossoming flowers
crocuses, camelias, plantain and honey

I’m eating only love from now on
Filing in the small cracks, of all my walls
Spackling them with golden light and tenderness

All the mouse holes are being covered up
They are being evacuated as I write this

I’m sealing up all the windows and the doors to keep the heat in

At night
I’m cutting all my cords,
unplugging all my lines
Until there is only me

Until I am full of warmth
and this body is once again my home.
February 23, 2012 at 12:42 PM
BT said…
I was using knowledge and growth/understanding as a from of wealth. Also using my body as a metaphor for property, being a home. I know It's prob. a stretch, but that's all that came out.
February 23, 2012 at 12:45 PM
M said…
Members Only

At first they seemed pleasant and welcoming,
And gave me a certificate that’s “suitable for framing;”
But soon, I knew I’d never want to buy
The club's gaudy, exclusive tie.

The invitations to their lofty tower are polite,
It’s perfect for them, because it keeps “undesirables” out of their sight;
But inside it is noxious, polluted by fumes of snobbery.
Their conversation is superficial, and $100 a plate is robbery.

Valet parking and Waterford chandeliers,
Reed & Barton sterling silverware and Tiffany gilded mirrors,
Plush scarlet carpet and Corinthian columned halls,
All those “sirs” and “madams” reveling at their black-tie gala balls.

They have too much of everything,
And I find it very unsettling.
Whether old money or new money, it’s something they love to flaunt;
And to hell with the poverty that Big Money’s warped priorities have wrought.

It’s clear that they only see in me what they want to see:
Simply that I have an archaic “pedigree.”
The joke’s on them, because they think I have a mind like theirs;
Little do they know that I have something different upstairs.

I’m more different than they would ever see,
Because their knowing about my ancestors is not the same as knowing me.
I’ve always wanted to fit in somewhere,
But not there, among pompous, worldly acquaintances about whom I really don’t care.

“The Society’s garden party in Manhattan will be terribly fun,” they once said.
“I’m awfully sorry,” I replied, “but I won’t be able to come.”
And I didn’t.
And I never will.
I’m not one of them.
I’m just plain me.
February 23, 2012 at 10:05 PM
M said…
This was inspired by some historical societies I've dealt with over the past few years that turned out to be pretty snobby, so I didn't want to be (or remain) a member of them. Most of this is true, but some is a bit of creative licence. I tried a bunch of rhyming couplets for a change, but... oh well.
February 23, 2012 at 10:25 PM
BT said…
Oh and thank goodness "I’m not one of them. I’m just plain me". I wouldn't have it any other way. Brilliant! I love the couplets, it all works really well. Seriously, you surrounded by a bunch of silly snobs, what do they know of poets hearts, even if they have read they had read all the classics, do they ever really feel them?
February 24, 2012 at 12:01 AM
M said…
This is really beautiful, and again the imagery is very strong. Imagery is definitely one of your strengths in all your poetry. I love the whole concept of opening yourself up, sort of like unbuttoning a trench coat to feel all the elements, and trying to absorb as much as you can to learn more about the world, yourself, and who you are. The title is great. I like where you have the idea of “stretching the lines of communication,” just like the meridian line extending from the pole to pole, a person wanting to open themselves up from head to foot and take in as much knowledge as they can and along the way learn more about themselves. Something else that I really like is “collecting all the pieces of myself, bits from here and there…..” It struck a chord with me, because that’s so much of what life is about – going around gathering pieces of ourselves and trying to put ourselves back together after a trauma and at the same time searching for “new” pieces of ourselves that will help make us complete. I love the part that goes: “I’m eating only love from now on / Filling in the small cracks of all my walls / Spackling them with golden light and tenderness.” The sudden humor is fun where you then write that the mice are being evacuated! Love it. Then the shift back to seriousness at the end is excellent, about cutting and unplugging the cords and lines (whether physical, emotional, or even technological) that can wind around a person too tightly and keep them from self-discovery, and the idea of a person reclaiming their body as their true home and being comfortable and enriched within their own skin or soul. I think this is a really beautiful expression of “opulence”… the opulence of the “individual,” the beauty of individuality, and enrichment of our lives through knowledge and understanding. I like this poem very much.
February 24, 2012 at 3:07 PM
M said…
Thanks for telling me your opinion! Yeah, snobs and arrogant people drive me crazy. You made a good point about whether snobby people who might have read all the classics ever actually felt anything from them... it really does make you wonder.
February 24, 2012 at 4:35 PM
Miss Anthrope said…
After a while, you get used to the wanting. It becomes a habit. You wouldn't know what you'd be without it. It becomes your identity. You ARE wanting, even when you are not wanting. And when you finally get the life you've always wanted, when it's right there in front of you, you want it still.

As you grow old, you realize that what you've always wanted doesn't really exist and that you can never be satisfied. All these things you've been wanting, they're beautiful but not what you thought they would be. (Insert here Talking Heads: "...this is not my beautiful house...this is not my beautiful wife...my god, what have I done?..." etc.). There is a conspicuous absence of meaning. It is then that the wanting becomes an ache.

You look at the vagrant, huddled on the street with a blanket and tobacco-stained fingers in the early morning and you wish you were him. And it could have been, had things gone a slightly different way.

You want to turn around every morning when you hit the concrete wall of the suburbs with the cold and the stench of fertilizer, you want to take the first bus back to the city, stopping at John's Cafe where the old man in the hat with the feather sits at the corner table every morning at 6:30, while the waitress in her sixties chews on a piece of bacon. You want to sit in silence under the fluorescent lights with them, surrounded by fake wood panel and greet the dawn with two buttermilk pancakes, two eggs and two sausages for $3.95.

You think about the time, twenty years ago, when you took a Greyhound bus from Dallas to Portland and lived on $2 biscuits and gravy for two days. Your Persian rugs and Venetian masks and heavy antique wood pull you further from that time, so you look for it again at the bottom of a glass of single-malt scotch. But it isn't there. You made the mistake of chasing the American nightmare and now you're too far from home.
February 25, 2012 at 11:42 AM
Miss Anthrope said…
Okay, the ending is choppy and doesn't feel finished (the writing). But it is what it is. I guess it never feels finished (the life)...haha!
February 25, 2012 at 12:03 PM
BT said…
Thank you MWB, I've been trying to just be more open and more positive, trying is the key word here, not to be afraid to say what I want to.
February 25, 2012 at 12:06 PM
BT said…
i think that this is wonderfully put. how true it is, this American dream that we are feed since birth, that there will be security in it somehow, a home? Happiness? It's difficult to know what you want, after all we are all ever changing. I laughed at the Talking Heads insertion.

I was just talking to a friend the other day, I feel so strange now, i bought a new coat, I passed these kids spare changing and thought, I'm just like you, although our uniforms look different. just because you have had more adventures and Persian rugs doesn't make your heart any less a tumbleweed. xoxox

Really well done
February 25, 2012 at 12:12 PM
BT said…
Plus wanting leads to new adventure, growth and a chance to take a new direction, or as many new ones as you'd like.
February 25, 2012 at 12:14 PM
BT said…
MWB, I do love the image of you in these upper crust places, "Reed & Barton sterling silverware and Tiffany gilded mirrors,
Plush scarlet carpet and Corinthian columned halls,
All those “sirs” and “madams” reveling at their black-tie gala balls."
I'm picturing you standing with a glass of well aged scotch, thinking to your self "your all such assholes", but being ever so wonderful as you are, just sipping your drink and politely refusing there invitation like a true gentleman.
February 25, 2012 at 12:21 PM
Miss Anthrope said…
That's one of the biggest ironies: how I find myself thinking "I know what it's like to live your life" when I pass street kids. What they think about me is totally different. It's the uniform I wear now. They have no idea. It kind of makes me sad sometimes though. I don't know why.
February 25, 2012 at 12:24 PM
BT said…
Me too! I bet that they themselves will go though it too. it's part of the cycle, I feel like I'm lucky to have lived that way and now I get to experience what this is like. Like anthropology or some shit, I'm gaining some strange knowledge about our culture from so many backgrounds. Maybe we are like bridges.
February 25, 2012 at 12:35 PM
BT said…
Yet, I'm afraid to give away to much, still working on that balance.
February 25, 2012 at 1:14 PM
M said…
You're so right, it really does take a lot of effort trying to be more open and positive, not so afraid to say what you want or worry about giving away too much. I think that's probably every poet's and creative writer's biggest stumbling block, because it all comes down to really putting yourself out there... It takes a lot of self-understanding and confidence to write down what you feel deep in your soul. I'm still struggling with this too, just trying to build up the strength to say what I want to say in poetry and short stories without worrying so much. I also know my limitations (I have to admit), so I am super-critical my own writing! I'm trying to get past that though, and just somehow write with more freedom. I've read everything you've posted so far and enjoy it a lot, so I honestly think you have come a long way toward finding just the right balance you mentioned. The intensity in your poetry is increasing, so whatever you're doing keep on doing it! Oh, and if you discover the secret formula please tell me because I am desperate to improve my own writing! (smile)
February 28, 2012 at 7:06 PM
M said…
Haha! Yeah, the silly upper crust things can be very uncomfortably weird (it's not the environment I grew up in), so I just have to secretly laugh (kind of scornfully) at some of the absurdity of those people. You've got the picture about right, standing around like a bump on a log with that glass of well aged scotch (or a martini - shaken, not stirred! Joke.). It was actually hard trying to come up with different polite excusues for refusing invitations to things like this. Well, you know me, Mike the anti-snob... Oh well.
February 28, 2012 at 7:29 PM
Post a Comment